


Five Times Gawain Almost Got A Nap (And One Time He Did)

by SuperLizard



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Camping, Domestic Violence, Exhaustion, Insomnia, Mild Language, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperLizard/pseuds/SuperLizard
Summary: The entire fandom agrees.Gawain needs a nap.Here's a bunch of times he nearly got one.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Somewhere between the sacred silence and sleep

The woods were oppressively silent. The gentle rise and fall of the land and the thick tree cover trapped sound before it had a chance to carry. This deep in the forest, even the birds respected the silence. The loudest sounds were the buzz of flies. 

Unavoidable, unstoppable, intolerable biting flies with a taste for flesh. They lay in wait in the moss and ferns on the forest floor, waiting for their next victim while hiding from bats and birds. As soon as the lightest footstep fell, every fly within a stone's throw rose into the air and circled in on the one who dared disturb them.

In this case, the poor fool who crossed their damp, boggy territory was Gawain. The deep forest was the safest way to cross from the farms back to Nemos; nobody entered it. Nobody would follow him. Any soldiers or paladins that saw his tracks enter here would give him up for lost or dead, and any hostile band of Fey would assume he would re-emerge shortly the way he entered. The deep forest was the domain of the bear and the wolf, the elk and the owl, and nothing that walked along on two legs was likely to survive the night.

Unless, of course, they had lots of practice surviving in the woods. Which Gawain did. He reckoned that if the world really went to shit, he could live comfortably in the deep woods for some time. He knew the quality of vegetation over the sinkholes, where the moss and foliage had grown over cracks in the rock so thickly that danger was hidden under a soft blanket of green. He knew what bear and elk smelled like, their tracks and habits, and where to avoid them during each season. He knew which plants were deadly poison and which were safe to chew to keep his energy up while he hiked across the woods. And most importantly, he'd brought his own supply of safe water in two water skins.

As the evening fell and the flies became more intense, he found a less damp rise in the earth and a broad oak with a hollow in its branches, and climbed into its embrace to await dawn. He was oddly pleased with his chosen place; there would be no sounds from the other Fey, snoring and startling awake from nightmares, no children crying, no insomniac old ones awake before the sun and mumbling to themselves. There would be no night watch to march past the tent just as he was drifting off. There would only be the sacred silence of the deep forest and at last-- at last!-- sleep.

He wrapped the waxed wool camp blanket around himself and leaned into the strong arms of the oak, pulled his shirt up to cover his head and face and discourage insects, and watched the waning light of the evening fade into darkness. The moon was only a sliver. Even teamed up with every star in the heavens, it could not break through the canopy of the trees. There was nothing to disturb him. Nothing, in this moment, to worry him. No responsibilities to reach him. The satisfaction of unbreakable peace traced a smile on his lips, dragged his eyelids down, slowed his breathing--

_bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

He tried to ignore it.

_zzzzzzzzZZZZZ_

Maybe it would get bored and go away.

_ZZZZZZZZZZZT_

It bit right through the cloth of his shirt, into the flesh under his ear. He reflexively slapped at it, and grimaced as his hand came away sticky with fly guts and his own blood. He wiped his hand on the outside of the blanket and tucked back into his cover.

_bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

It was in the blanket with him, somehow, and still buzzing. It must have gotten in when he slapped the first fly. No matter; he would kill this one, and then it would be time for his much anticipated rest. Maybe he could sleep even after the sun came up. His mission was over, after all, and crossing the rest of the forest would only take half a day.

He shuffled around, trying to keep as covered as possible, but also trying to find the little bastard before it--

_ZZZZT_

\--bit him in the ear. He slapped the side of his own head and then batted at his ear, trying to knock it loose. It fell down the neck of his shift, leaving him cursing and itchy. He sighed and shook out his shift, then cursed louder when another fly took the opportunity to enter his shift and bite him in the small of the back. He rolled to squash it and just resigned himself to have fly guts stuck to him until morning. The risk of opening his undershirt again was far too great. Now, if he could just--

ZZZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZZZZZ

He sighed and acknowledged the futility of trying. Life was shit and he would be eaten by flies before sunrise. No trace of him would remain but his weapons and the metal buckles from his clothes. No one would find them anyway. Kaze would take charge of the camp, but always wonder how her friend had died. They would find some new fool and slap a sword on them and a helmet and declare them their champion, then never let them sleep and send them on ridiculous missions through the forests of the underworld and they would get eaten by flies too, perhaps while standing under this very tree and contemplating his weapons and metal bits. 

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

He sighed again, and hoped for sunrise.


	2. Enter Sandman

After a completely wasted night trying to sleep in a tree while also becoming a feast for flies, Gawain hiked back into camp looking like he’d been dragged through the forest. Kaze took his report and sent him to wash and have something to eat. He made it through washing, but his throat was closed and eating seemed like torture, so instead of heading to the mess line, he retired to his tent.

It was still the middle of the afternoon, and he never could sleep well in the sunlight, so he tried to relax and read for awhile. The fly bites had developed into welts. He tried his damndest not to scratch, but that is always a fool’s hope. His stomach turned, but there was nothing to bring up. He felt his head begin to pound in the way that usually accompanied a fever. The flies wouldn’t be content just to steal his sleep, but they would steal his reading time as well. 

He grumbled and put the book away, then summoned the willpower to trudge all the way to the healer’s tent. He was widely avoided but gifted looks of sympathy by all who happened by him. He supposed the allergic reaction must be reddening his face and neck by now. His eyes itched and watered. 

Cora pulled a face at him and gestured for him to sit down and wait while she prepared some tea, then gestured for him to remove his shirt. The look on her face deepened and widened like a gentle meadow splitting open in an earthquake of disgust. She set a pot of ointment next to him on the bench and went to work applying it to his neck and back while he applied it to his chest. Then he rolled up his trousers and applied it to the bites on his legs as well. 

When he was done, she capped the ointment and handed him a warm wooden cup full of tea that smelled like it had come directly out of a fen. Maybe it had. Maybe she kept dried loam for exactly this occasion. Maybe the taste was supposed to make his suffering seem more tolerable in comparison. He drank it in one go, and tried not to return it immediately.

She took the mug out of his hand and patted him on the shoulder, her empathy bordering on pity. He rolled his trouser legs down and put his shirt back on, and when he was certain he wasn’t going to project the bitter tea all over the first person he met outside, he forced himself back to his feet and slouched all the way to his bed.

Maybe the afternoon wasn’t such a bad time to sleep. The itching was less maddening now, though still annoying. His throat was opening again, and breathing became easier. He tried to taste the air in his lungs instead of the residue of the tea. The pounding in his head slowly tapered off, its tempo and timbre becoming less frantic and more like the gentle inevitability of the grave. If he could just fall asleep, he knew he would wake up after the pain had passed. 

The sun dimmed. The sounds of life slowly quieted as the denizens of their refugee camp returned to their own beds. The crickets took over the symphony, joined by the occasional owl and late-night black bird. The wind in the trees sighed as the whole world relaxed.   
Gawain was ready. He opened his heart to the sounds of the earth and reached for the darkness of unconsciousness with both metaphorical arms. He let his body relax, muscle by muscle, and felt his breathing even out. It was going to happen this time. He was going to sleep. 

An infant began to wail in the tent closest his. He pulled his pillow over his head and held it over his ears with both arms, waiting for the screaming to stop. The infant’s parents awoke and began fussing over it. It wailed louder. They began to quietly argue with each other over what to do. The frazzled mother carried the infant out of the tent and began pacing the row, shushing the child and trying to soothe it with motion. The wailing died away as they traveled farther down the row… and then they returned up the row and the wailing built into what felt like an objection at the unasked and intolerable suffering of a universe unfairly constructed of grief and irritation. 

And as frustrated and inconsolable as the child sounded, Gawain also felt.


	3. Dream On

He closed his eyes and opened them to the morning sun and sounds of life resuming. If he slept, he hadn't realized it and didn't feel any of the lingering effects sleep was supposed to have. His nerves still buzzed and his back was one continuous knot. 

Today, there was the daily camp council meeting, followed by the Fey Guard daily, followed by a quick break for lunch that could be an opportunity for a nap if he did everything right, then there was a round of inspections, receiving supply reports, a meeting with the camp seneschal Kaze to review disputes, then they would probably make a round of visits to parties to those disputes, then there would be a follow-up, and if he was still standing by the end of it then there was a Joining ceremony that evening and he had been formally and specifically invited.

Just thinking about the day made him feel exhausted. Why were there so many days of work smashed into sixteen hours? He pressed himself out of bed and took a full five minutes between one leg of his trousers and the other, staring intensely at the ground and feeling like his eyelids could drift closed at any minute. When it didn't happen, and he didn't fall forward and simply continue his sleep but face-down in the dirt, he sighed and carried on like he knew he must.

The obligations of the day pushed their time boundaries at every opportunity. The morning council meeting went long, each member of the camp's administration believing-- and rightly so-- that their matters deserved more than the allotted time. New refugees were arriving, new incursions were reported from villages previously left in peace, new sewer trenches needed to be dug, a school needed to be arranged for the young, and all of this had to be decided _right now._

He wondered if it would really be so bad to decide some of this tomorrow, or if a school would just organically form out of the collective will of parents and educators, without the direct approval of the camp council. It wasn't that he didn't care-- that couldn't be farther from the truth. But his eyes were very dry and his feet ached, and he was distracted by how comfortable the ground was looking.

After the council, Cora caught his arm and gestured for him to stay back. She examined him with a critical eye and asked after his sleep habits, which made him laugh. One couldn't have bad sleep habits, he answered wryly, if one doesn't sleep. She didn't take the joke as well as he had hoped, and it took considerable effort to convince her that he would sleep just as soon as he was able, and all unimportant business would wait for another day.

The Guard was luckily organized and led well enough that their daily role call and assignments were done before he arrived, and he was able to lend his presence to motivate the guard to volunteer for watch rotations rather than having to be assigned. Looking into the prematurely lined and weathered faces of the warriors in his command, he felt a pull of obligation to volunteer for a shift himself, so that one of them could rest; but he had promised Cora, and Cora was terrifying at a rate disproportionate to her usual kindly demeanor, when angered. He gave them encouragement and sent them on their way.

He had barely sat at his desk before the first round of inspections were scheduled. He and a small group of faun archers visited the cave that counted as their armory, and checked that weapons, armor, and gear were being kept in good condition. They spotted and cited some problems and ordered armor be moved onto racks to keep out of the damp. They visited the stables and spot-checked three horses at random from the overall herd. Their hooves were growing long from walking only on soft forest paths; they made a note to ask if there were a farrier amidst the new arrivals. They checked in on the training grounds and new recruits, all of them heart-breakingly young and with the haunted look of fresh trauma. The war just wouldn't wait for them to grow up.

He returned with a heavy heart and heavy limbs to the command tent, where Kaze waited with a pot of tea and a stack of ledgers. They sat across from each other at the only desk and checked over reports and inventories of people, food, herbs, bandages, tack, clothes, jars, brushes, fishing gear, tools, and tents. Everything was too little except for mouths to feed and hands to fill. By the end, Gawain's head rested in his hands and the numbers on the parchment seemed to blur and run together.

Kaze put a hand on his shoulder and met his eyes, a careful question on her face.

He nodded and wiped his hand across his eyes.

She closed the book of reports and opened the book of disputes. Whereas the reports wearied them with the essential, the disputes wearied them with the trivial. A refugee camp full of unfamiliar tribes trying to make do, was a spawning ground of disagreement and hurt feelings. Everyone needed those hurt feelings acknowledged and validated so they could carry on without feeling excluded from the already stressed society if the camp. And it was up to Kaze and Gawain to hear and validate all of these claims. Usually, the offended party wanted nothing more than an apology. And luckily for Gawain's aching feet, that was all that was needed today.

He hesitated at the crossroads with Kaze. Carry on to the Joining and present his blessings to the happy couple, or return to his tent and perhaps exhaustion would overtake the noise of the festivities and he could finally sleep? Kaze laid a hand on his shoulder again, and gave him a significant eyebrow. This was more important than sleep. This was the last joy they were likely to have for awhile, and as the de facto leadership, they both needed to make an appearance. The Green Knight was the rallying point of the resistance its beating heart, and the Seneschal was its mind. They needed to be there and be seen.

He sighed and nodded. They carried on. 

Later, standing across from his little sister all grown up, and examining the finest sword he had ever seen, the rush of energy that had come with her unexpected arrival was ebbing away and he heard some distant noise in the back of his mind. Was it whispers and screams? It was probably the exhaustion catching up to him. He handed the strange sword over to her and felt the weight of gravity and obligation pulling him downward. If there was one thing clear about all of the strange business with Nimue and the sword and her lousy man-blood love interest, it was that he wouldn't be getting to sleep anytime soon.


	4. Sleep to Dream

He tried to go to bed, he really did. Everyone was hounding him to get some sleep, but it was never the right moment. As soon as he concluded one matter, someone would approach him with another. He agreed to one last petitioner before leaving the command tent.

The camp needed to move supplies, but there weren't enough carts. He instructed the waiting laborers, who all looked as tired as he was, to go to the carpenters and ask as nicely as possible for some pony-drags. 

There was another person outside his tent. The water from the river smelled odd. He posted a guard on each path from camp to the river, to instruct people to use only water from the well for drinking and cooking, and to hold off on all other uses of water until the strangeness continued downstream or the source was known. He could arrange an investigation later.

Cora and Pym were partway down the path from the command tent to the residential cluster. They were completely out of useable bandages. There were no more sources of cloth in the camp. They needed permission to send a trader into a town and barter, but there was hardly anything to trade. He advised them to take any non-breeding males from the goat heard and take them to town. It would leave them short of meat, but they could hunt for the deficit. 

A moment after they'd gone, a young man brought word of a fight at the cook fire, where some angry soul had decided he had received less than everyone else, and fists were thrown. He dashed to break it up, but luckily the cooks were not completely unable, and had the man trussed up and waiting to be taken to the stocks. 

He secured the wooden frame and assigned a guard to stand nearby and make sure he was released if there were a fire or attack, and reoriented himself towards his tent. 

A guard met him on the way. A bear had been spotted in the meadow nearest camp, attracted perhaps by the strawberries growing there. It did not seem to be aggressive, nor were any cubs spotted. He approved five guards for a sortie to scare the bear away.

He was almost there. He could see his tent. There were two women standing outside of it, holding hands. If it was a Joining they were after, they would have to wait at least until tomorrow. 

As he got closer, he could see that one of the women seemed apprehensive, and the other had a determined but protective posture. So not a Joining-- someone had been wronged, and brought a friend to give them the courage to speak of it.

He let out a long sigh and cursed internally, stopping an arm's length away but close enough that her business would not be shouted from the rooftops. He scrubbed his eyes with both hands, and looked at them through his eyebrows.

The apprehensive woman wavered and shifted on her feet like she might flee, but her friend gripped her arm and shook her head. Whatever it was, they resolved it now, in this hour, or not at all. The fear of it would swallow her up.

Which meant there had been violence already.

He was so very tired. All problems were the same size and he was so very small before them. Everyone needed so much, and he wasn't sure when the moment would be, that he would not be enough, and would just pass out in the middle of what he was doing. He nodded once, and offered his arm to the frightened woman, and hoped it wouldn't happen in the time it took to hear her troubles, or the time it took to solve them.


End file.
